


Rebellion

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Birthday Presents, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23632783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: That unendingly monotonous voice drones on and on until Boyd starts seriously questioning his ability to refrain from banging his head against a wall.Happy Birthday missduncan :) xx
Relationships: Peter Boyd/Grace Foley
Kudos: 10





	Rebellion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missduncan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missduncan/gifts).



**Rebellion**

* * *

This is completely bloody pointless, Boyd thinks, slumping deeper in his seat and trying to hide the scowl that is so desperately trying to break through. A hundred and forty-something miles from home for a conference and he’s learned nothing so far. Well, that’s not strictly true. This morning’s seminar was very interesting, for both of them, but this afternoon session...

Glancing sideways at Grace, he can see she’s not that interested either, but that she’s at least trying to maintain a polite facade. There’s a workbook in front of him, but he’s forgotten a pen. Well, bugger. There goes ‘audience participation’ and filling it in then. It’s a good job this isn’t a pass or fail scenario. His thoughts turn towards Spencer and the dark revenge he’s going to enact on his subordinate who was supposed to be here in his place.

Not that he’s complaining about three days away from the capital with the woman beside him, but sitting endlessly still listening to some fusty old man preaching about good management skills?

It’s all a bad joke, he decides.

Really, this is far too much like being back at school. It’s even set up like a classroom, for God’s sake, not a lecture theatre.

He’s heading rapidly for unbelievably bored. And entirely unable to sit still.

He looks at his fellow attendees for something to do. In front and to his left is a large man with hair he can only describe as unfortunate, and shoulders like big slabs of meat. Tiny waist, stupid shoes poking out of his ridiculously tightly tailored suit. Young, direct entry into the detective pathway, probably. More concerned with how he looks than how well he does the job. Clearly spends far too many hours in the gym building that ridiculous wasp-like physique, and an excessive amount of money on hair products. For a moment Boyd considers if the man is brighter than he looks, but then he asks a question and it becomes exceedingly apparent that he is not. In the slightest.

Definitely not a management candidate. Probably won’t stop him from trying, though.

Beside Idiot Wasp is a small, slight woman in her late thirties. She’s got honey-brown hair tucked into a simple ponytail, her clothes are good quality yet understated, and from what he can see, she has quite delicate features. She’s lean in a way that suggests she’s a distance runner, and the way she sits, so calmly and steadily, tells him she’s far more used to this sort of thing than Waspy. When she’s asked a question by the instructor, her answer is thoughtful and intelligent, providing just enough without embellishment. She’s sleek, Boyd decides. Sleek and quiet, like a cat.

Further ahead is a cloud of curly red hair that’s valiantly escaping the multitude of pins trying to force it into place. The owner, a short grey-eyed woman dressed from head to toe in black and dripping with ostentatious silver jewellery, introduced herself as a patrol inspector formerly of one of the nicks not far from the CCUs lair but now of Greater Manchester Police. Quite why she’s in civvy clothes Boyd can’t work out, but though he doesn’t know her, he knows _of_ her. Easy-going until challenged. Once caught her husband in bed with a Chief Superintendent and within a month he’d left the country never to return.

Beside Red and in front of Cat is a very tall, very slender young man. Boyd remembers watching him duck to get through the doorway. Must be six foot six, at least. He doesn’t look old enough to be a police officer, let alone on a leadership course, but when he speaks, he has the kind of quiet whispery voice that holds the listener’s attention. It’s balanced by a sense of intelligence and understanding. The sort of voice that people would turn to in a crisis, the kind of person that can be instinctively trusted to lead.

He looks utterly, incredibly bored.

Across from Whisper is a fat, old school detective who looks like he’s clinging on over the final hurdle before retirement. Long past enjoying the job and infinitely frustrated by the complicated twists and turns of modern policing, he’s the kind of old sweat who would capture someone in the hallways and talk them to death about the good old times, and how it was all done properly back in his day.

Beside him is a middle aged man who Boyd can only describe as bland. Everything about him just sort of fades into his surroundings. He sits quietly and unobtrusively, didn’t even make a noise when entering and taking his seat. Made equally bland small talk in the foyer downstairs at the start of the day. He’s the kind of person who probably has an extensive background in intelligence and surveillance. The kind of man so ordinary that most people just don’t even see him. The kind of man who sees everything that happens around him because most just don’t even notice he’s there.

There are a few others within easy line of sight, but only one is notable. A woman in her thirties with eyes so dark they are almost black, black spiky hair and a body composed entirely of sharp angles. She looks, he muses, like she’d eat any of them for dinner if they so much as walked across her path at the wrong moment. And from the way she’s sitting, tapping her pen with freakishly rhythmic frequency, her patience makes his look expansive.

Quickly and quietly, Boyd decides he’s going to give her a wide berth. To his amusement though, Old Sweat is paying very close attention to her. Very close.

The instructor, an uninspiring greying man in a grey suit, changes the slide.

Death by PowerPoint. Well and truly. Boyd sighs and resists the urge to side down in his seat. Only another two and a half hours to go. That unendingly monotonous voice drones on and on until Boyd starts seriously questioning his ability to refrain from banging his head against a wall.

To his left is a window. It looks out over a tiny courtyard faced on all four sides by ugly walls peppered with utilitarian windows. So much for decent architecture. Gazing down from their first-floor prison Boyd sees a single straggly tree and a handful of grey stone tubs from which a variety of green leafy things are sprouting, reaching up in a wild tangle, seeking every last scrap of sunshine available.

And there is sunshine. It’s a lovely day outside, far too nice to be cooped up inside at yet another professional development conference neither he nor Grace needs. If it weren’t for the fact that she’s the key speaker on day three…

There’s a sparrow on the windowsill, its small black eyes inspecting him curiously through the glass. Fascinated with the tiny bird, he watches as it hops sideways, still peering at him with those bright button eyes. The tiny head tilts sideways, the little beak lifting.

A question jerks his attention away from the window and he looks up as Grace answers smoothly. Satisfied, Grey turns to back to his presentation, gesturing about something on the big whiteboard to his side as he takes a marker and begins to draw a series of large, wobbly, interconnecting circles that apparently relate to what’s on the PowerPoint.

Looking back at the window Boyd watches the sparrow. It’s grooming itself now, beak flitting through its feathers, fluffing them up before it flutters its wings, shaking them out.

Lost in his observations his mind begins to wander. The bird reminds him of Grace in the mornings, the way she sits as she does her hair and her makeup, the look of concentration in her eyes. His own eyes flicker to the right, to the woman he can quite easily sit and obsess over if he wants to. She’s intent on what she’s doing, her pen flowing smoothly over the pages of her notebook, keeping up the perfect appearance of paying attention even when he knows, he just knows, that she’s every bit as bored as he is. It’s fascinating how she can so easily appear to be something she isn’t.

He loves this side to her. But then, he loves every side to her, even when she’s driving him insane. 

Boyd wonders if she truly understands how committed to her he is, how she’s everything he didn’t know he needed in his life. She’s brought him peace in his heart and an awareness of his self-destructive tendencies. To himself, as well, he will admit that she has gentled him a little. Taught him how to sometimes, just sometimes, rein in his fearsome temper and take a moment to think before he explodes.

Beside him she shifts slightly in her chair, chews absently on the end of her pen.

It’s so very sexy.

Leaning sideways, he reaches across under the table and rests a hand on Grace’s knee. Tickles the inside of it with just the very tips of his fingers. Feels a rush of boldness and slides his palm up her thigh. Up, up, and up. Only just hides his smirk at the sharp intake of breath he causes. It’s her own fault, after all, the things she does to him. As if to prove his point, suddenly he’s clamping his teeth on the inside of his lip to prevent himself from making a sound as she swiftly returns the gesture, stopping the upward motion to allow her hand to squeeze the muscle of his thigh, nails very deliberately catching a testicle and digging in.

It’s all the warning Boyd needs, loud and clear. He doesn’t have to see the look that comes his way for the briefest of moments. Knows there will be hell to pay tonight, when he slips quietly and unobtrusively into her room from his. Grace is very, very inventive when it comes to revenge. Sometimes he loves it. Sometimes he wishes he’d just behaved. Today he can’t tell what’s going on behind those level blue eyes.

Better not to risk it then.

He goes back to studying his sparrow. The little thing has fluttered off to its tree and then returned, seemingly entranced with him. It cocks its head to the side, cheeps softly. Taps the glass as if to break through and interrupt the lesson. Boyd smiles.

A sheet of paper and a pencil magically appears, sliding sideways across the desk towards him. Without hesitation he gets to work, slow strokes capturing every detail of his little friend.

Beside him a pen whispers as it runs across the pages of a notebook; Grace is still taking notes. Well, she _would_ , he decides. Bloody academics, always swotting up to the teacher. A second glance at her scruffy, scrawling chicken scratch though, and he almost laughs out loud. She’s not acting the diligent student today, oh no. She’s working on her next book. He recognises the pages of notes sticking out from under the notebook, something she was working on at his house latest week, something he used his masculine charms to lure her away from.

A slow smirk spreads across his face as he remembers bare skin and hot, heady words as they moved together on the sofa, slick with sweat and need as his impatience took over and her wild streak pushed him beyond reason. For a long, long moment he savours the memory. Calls up the feel of her wrapped around him, the delicious, blissful heat of being buried inside her, of being part of her. Tonight, he thinks, he will take his time as he –

A pen taps him across the back of his hand, dragging him out of his thoughts. The pen flicks towards the board for a split second, and Boyd’s eyes follow. He has time to register what’s there before a question comes his way, one he’s able to answer thanks to the warning. Breathing a sigh, he drops a hand below the table and squeezes her thigh once more, though this time in thanks. Grace offers a soft smile, one he’d do anything to be the recipient of.

He owes her, and he’d better keep an ear out, he realises, even as he takes up his pencil again and looks to see if his sparrow is still there. It is.

Despite his best intentions, Boyd becomes absorbed in the strokes of graphite and twice more the pen raps his knuckles. He manages to answer the questions unscathed, but his resentment starts to build at Grey’s tactics. This isn’t bloody school, he wants to growl. Only the knowledge that feedback will surely be sent back to London should there be any misbehaviour keeps him quiet and in his seat. The urge to get up and walk out is almost unbearable.

He’s not the only one suffering from the incessant droning, it seems. Whisper is sliding down in his seat, despite what appears to be his best efforts not to, and Cat is fidgeting. Finally, it seems as if she can bear it no longer and raises a hand. Asks politely if they might have a break. Grey looks thoroughly startled, as though the very idea is a foreign concept to him, but agrees easily enough as the rest of the class suddenly sits up in their chairs, more alert than they have been since the first five minutes.

The room is empty in seconds, even Grace hurries out.

“Good lord,” she growls as they flee down the corridor after the vanishing group. “What a colossal waste of time. I’ve never in all my years met a speaker so... so dull!”

They’re passing the lift and by some miracle or coincidence, it’s open. Boyd grabs Grace by the arm and pulls her inside as the door closes. There’s no one else inside and as she presses a button he crowds into her personal space, uses his superior height as weight to push her against the wall, his hands immediately straying to her hips as he leans down and finds her lips with his own. He expects a shove and a sharp word or two, for despite the fact that they are in a small sphere of momentary privacy they are still in a public place, still at a conference. Instead he feels the warmth of hands wrapping around his back beneath his jacket and moans in bliss as she kisses him in return with real heat and passion. By the time the lift reaches its destination he’s forgotten where they are, but suddenly it’s Grace who is grabbing his hand, and Grace who is towing him from the small moving cube and down the hallway they’ve arrived at. She stops outside a door and releases the lock, then shoves him inside.

“Grace,” he whispers, and it is both a question and a statement.

The door clatters shut behind them, the lock clicks into place again with a deft twist of her fingers. In answer Grace places her bag on the table and steps towards him.

Reaching for his jacket she pushes it from his shoulders.

“I’m not spending another moment in that room,” she informs him, eyes absolutely serious before she kisses him.

The reply he was formulating vanishes as Boyd’s mind goes utterly, entirely blank. Her lips are soft and warm. Gentle at first, they pull him in until everything is an erotic haze and his body is afire with want and need.

His shirt is unbuttoned before he knows it, her fingers skimming over his chest, flicking his nipples. The back of his legs hit the bed – he hadn’t even realised she was backing him up towards it.

Reality reasserts for the briefest of moments. Boyd toes off his shoes, pulls her lacy top and the thin tee shirt beneath it off in one go, and then twists, pushing her down into the mattress as he falls with her. Clothes vanish, bed covers become tangled, and the air fills with sighs and moans as they lose themselves in one another. Heat, sweat, passion. Love. They share it all between them, crashing headlong into that blistering ecstasy and then clinging tightly to one another, still breathing hard, still lost.

Boyd stirs slowly. Lifts his head and looks down at her. Grace is tousled, her eyes hazy as she watches him.

“Don’t move,” she orders, closing her eyes again. “I’m savouring this moment.”

“Any particular reason?” he enquires, settling back against her. If she wants to stay so warmly entangled with him, he’s far from disposed to argue with her.

“I’m feeling particularly blissful,” she murmurs, face snuggled into his shoulder. “And I’m also enjoying being a rebel.”

Boyd trails a line of delicate kisses along her shoulder and up her neck until he finds her lips once again. “You’ve always been a rebel, darling,” he murmurs, heat still simmering in his veins.

“But I’ve been behaving myself lately,” sighs Grace. “I haven’t done anything really naughty in ages.”

Boyd raises an eyebrow. “You consider skipping class really naughty?”

Grace shrugs. “Well, you know… book nerd and all that…”

He laughs, kisses her again.

“You know,” he tells her, after a pause, “my father always told me to stay away from intelligent women. He said they’re far too difficult to handle and far too troublesome. Told me I’d save myself a lot of heartache if I just listened and followed his advice.”

Beneath him she sighs. “I see,” is the slow, even response.

“But then, I’ve never been one to do as I’m told.”

Now it is Grace who chuckles. “And don’t I know it.”

“Not that I have even a shred of intent to go back to that wretched lecture, but how much trouble do you think we’ll be in for missing the rest of the day?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “None at all. How are we to blame for the bacon being off at breakfast?” A dismissive shrug, a slight raise of her hands as they settle back against the pillows.

Boyd cackles at her wickedness.

“Dear God.” He shakes his head and tosses a blanket at her. Gets up and pads over to the small table. “Time for a cup of tea, I think.” Kettle set to boil he rifles through the tray of teabags and instant coffee. “Ooh, look. Real biscuits.”

Grace’s laughter at his glee trails behind her as she vanishes into the small bathroom. By the time she emerges, swiping her notebook from her bag, Boyd has two mugs ready and waiting on the bedside table, along with the small selection of biscuits.

“Afternoon tea, my lady,” he intones, gallantly. Laughing together, they settle back against the headboard, Grace wrapped in the light blanket, Boyd lounging bare atop the quilt.

Sipping from her mug, Grace pulls his sketch from the pages of her notes. Examines the fine detail of his rendering, the way the curious eyes of the sparrow almost seem to gleam on the page. “This is very good, you know,” she tells him. “In fact, I’m going to frame this. Put it up on the wall in my study.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. As a reminder of this day. Of our little act of rebellion. Anyone who visits will see a pretty bird, but I will look at it and think of that awful classroom and then of these sheets and this bed, and how we sat here drinking tea and doing… other things.”

Head resting in his hand, Boyd gazes at her. “Grace?”

“Mm?”

“I love you.”

The warmth in her eyes melts him. And then that wicked hint of mischief sparks there too.

“Peter?”

His blood superheats at her tone.

“Yes?”

“Kiss me again?”

Boyd grins, discards his empty mug and hers. “Anytime, Grace. Anytime.”


End file.
